The Way I See It
by BeTheWorld
Summary: A character study project. 50 oneshots/drabbles based on 50 one-word prompts featuring 50 different characters. Written for owluvr's Character Diversity Boot Camp Challenge.
1. Draco Malfoy — Facade

**A/N**: So this was written, as I said, for owluvr's Character Diversity Boot Camp. Each chapter will be a different one-shot/drabble based on different one word prompts. Most will probably be under 1000 words, some may be over. A lot of them will be entirely stand-alone, but there may be a bit of flow between a few of them... I hope you enjoy, though, and please Review! :)

**Disclaimer:** All following characters belong to JK Rowling

**Character**: Draco Malfoy

**Prompt:** Facade

It's broken and chipped and dirty, this facade that Draco's been throwing up for years. He's desperately kept everyone at arm's length, refusing to let anyone in too close for fear that they might discover his deepest secrets, his most private obsessions, the terror that lurks just beneath his skin. But after seeing so much horror and bloodshed and torture, after being forced to do dirty, despicable, vile things, he's not quite sure he has the strength to keep it up any longer.

He wants to pull his hair out in great, filthy clumps, wants to run away and hide. He flinches whenever he hears his Aunt Bella's voice, grimaces at the thought of serving one more day in the service of the Dark Lord, and the urge to spit in his father's face is overwhelming every time he's near the man. More than all this, though, Draco is disgusted with himself. He's worlds away from the boy who, just a few years ago, had been so eager and excited to accept the Dark Mark, proud of all the power that came with it. His fingers itch to scrape away the flesh from his left arm, to claw at his skin until there's no trace of the tattoo left.

But he doesn't. He doesn't do any of these things. No, instead he keeps up the facade, allows his parents and his aunt and his master to believe that he's still fighting for their cause. He's reluctant, to be sure. That much is obvious to anyone who bothers to look closely enough. But the sheer, unadulterated panic that he feels with every waking moment doesn't show through in his face. His eyes are stone cold, lips drawn tight, cheekbones high and aristocratic as ever. Heartless and blank and empty. That's the face that he shows the world. And he succeeds, at least to a certain extent. They all believe it, because none of them pay him much attention. His facade remains intact.

That is, of course, until that dreadful night in the Room of Hidden Things. He can't quite hide the note of anxiety in his voice as he begs Crabbe not to kill Potter. Draco doesn't know why he's so desperate, but he is sure that Potter is absolutely his last hope. If he does it, if he defeats the Dark Lord, Draco knows that the boy is trusting and naive enough to give him a second chance. That's the reason that he tells himself, at least. He needs Potter to win so that he can have a chance at manipulating his way into freedom.

But then the fire starts, and it's horrible. It's worse than anything he's ever felt, hotter than the deepest pits of Hell, and he's running flat-out, desperate to escape. But it isn't enough. He's going to die; he's certain of it. He feels a sweaty hand grasp his once, twice, slipping out on each go, and he can hardly see what's happening through the smoke and ash that's hanging thick in the air.

Before he knows it, though, he's being pulled forcibly onto a broom, soaring high over the blazing inferno. He screws his eyes shut and buries his face in the back of Potter's shirt in a futile attempt at keeping himself from choking on the black soot. His arms are tight around the other boy's middle, a hard, unrelenting grasp, and through the haze of blackness and fire that's covering everything in sight, he screams himself hoarse in Potter's ear, shouting out all the terror and distress that's built itself up inside him for two years. As they tumble into the corridor, slamming into the opposite wall, and collapse, gasping, into a heap on the floor, Draco realises that his facade has been burnt away just as easily as if it had been made of wood


	2. Molly Weasley II — Forgotten

**Character: **Molly Weasley II

**Prompt: **Forgotten

She isn't the oldest or the youngest. She isn't the smartest or the prettiest. She's not even the best Quidditch player. She's just a face in the crowd at family reunions, a hanger-on that falls somewhere left of centre and just barely off the mark. It's easy in a family like hers to feel as though she'll never quite measure up.

Her aunts and uncles are all legends, the kinds of people that get whispered about and pointed at whenever they leave the house. Her grandparents are admired in almost every wizarding circle for being kind, gracious, generous, and pretty much all-around excellent people. Even her cousins are sparkling with wit and life, basking in the residual glory of their parents as they create their own stories.

But Molly, well, she isn't much of anything at all. Even her name doesn't quite belong to her. It's a hand-me-down. And of course she understands why her father chose it. He was trying to right past wrongs, trying to ease his transition back into the family. But even after all these years, when everyone gets together, she feels as though they're rather like outsiders looking in.

Her mother didn't grow up with the rest of them; she didn't move in the same crowd, and Molly still gets the feeling every now and then that the rest of the family haven't quite accepted her into the fold. Her uncles all tease her father, of course; that's just a holdover from their childhood, she knows. But it's more than that. There's a hesitation in their voices when they speak to her parents, when they invite her along, as though they've come a bit too close to forgetting that this particular branch of the Weasley family exists.

Lucy has less of a problem with it. She's always been all easy-going smiles and hair tossing around with laughter, and Molly wishes she could have a bit of that brightness for herself. But she takes too much after their father, spends too much time worrying about rule breaking and the reaction of the adults in her life while the rest of her cousins run scampering off to fly their brooms or play Exploding Snap.

She knows that it's probably her own fault, that she closes herself off by being too shy and quiet in this loud, boisterous, fiery family of hers, but that's often not enough to convince her that she hasn't been just a little bit forgotten


	3. Madam Pince — Book

**Character: **Madam Pince

**Prompt:** Book

She knows she's not the most popular person at Hogwarts. She sees the frustrated glares that the students throw at her, hears their muttering as they're ushered from the library. They get fed up with her when she hisses at them to quiet down, roll their eyes and laugh when she gets angry with them. And she knows for a fact that they don't feel the same way about her books that she does. They think it's funny, but that's just because they don't understand.

Irma Pince has always had a passionate, irrational love for books. There's just something about the smell of old pages, the creaking of an ancient spine. Libraries, in particular, have always fascinated her. When she was a student at the school, she used to pace the aisles for hours, absently running her fingers across the gold-embossed titles. She would pause every now and then to pull one from its shelf, blow the dust off the old leafs of paper and wonder. Who had held this book before? Who had read it, and what had they learnt? How did that stain get on the page? Had the book been well-loved, or had it been neglected?

So when the time came for her to decide on a career, there was really only one option. Even now, when she spends long days brandishing her feather duster at misbehaving students and watching them suspiciously as they try to sneak a peek at the Restricted Section, she still loves this place. There's a certain peace to it, a tranquility. She's so harsh about their talking because she wants to find a way to preserve that. She wants them to appreciate it too, wants them to understand that the books in a library hold more stories than what's written on their pages.


	4. Ginny Weasley — Dark

**Character:** Ginny Weasley

**Prompt:** Dark

There's a deep, cold sort of darkness in Ginny that she doesn't often own up to. She smiles and laughs and plays Quidditch, and sure, she likes those things. But there's a part of her, a part that she can't always entirely ignore, that feels as though it's been touched by something nasty, something vile and raw around the edges and evil.

She watches Harry sometimes, wonders what it is that makes him tick. He's been through so much, dragged himself through muck and mire, been pulled, kicking and screaming, through the fiery bowels of Hell, but somehow…somehow it doesn't seem as though any of it quite touches him. Even after all the things he's seen in his life, he has a certain, eternal innocence, a kind of unwavering satisfaction with everything around him, like he's completely comfortable in his own skin. No matter what happens to him, he finds a way to move forward, to move on. She knows she shouldn't, but she often wonders what it would take to extinguish the dancing light behind his eyes. Maybe the growing darkness of the world will do it, she thinks, maybe the lingering threat of Voldemort or the latest rumours being printed about him in the papers, the entire world calling him mad. Or maybe none of it will. She can't be certain.

But what Ginny does know, even at fifteen, is that she's not cut out for goodness. Not entirely, anyway. Her school-girl crush on the Boy Who Lived faded long ago, replaced by more realistic, more mature expectations for herself. She knows now, after all this time, that Harry is not a legend. He isn't a god or an all-powerful hero or a character in a bedtime story. He's a real person, and he's one of her best friends, but maybe he's just a bit too golden and shining for her.

She can tell that if they got together now, it would make sense; it would probably even be expected. They'd live a happy life together, maybe have a few kids, grow old by each other's sides. She can picture it in her mind as though she were watching the whole thing as a slideshow of photographs. When Harry finishes the fight with Voldemort, when they settle down together, it'll be easy, close to perfect, simple. Finally, something effortless. People will smile at their wedding; her mum will beam when she's presented with grandchildren. And the thing is, Ginny knows that she could love him.

But whenever she allows her mind to drift in this direction, there's something nagging at her, something whispering, nasty, into her ear, telling her that Harry doesn't deserve that. That he wouldn't have any idea what he was getting himself into. Maybe that's what it would take to put out his fire; if she gets too close, she might taint him, soil the easy grace with which he moves through life. Ginny's always been bad at resisting temptation, though; she knows that if he asked her, she would say yes. She would jump into his arms and never look back, no questions asked. Consequences be damned.

She doesn't want to ruin him, though. She wants to self-destruct, to tear at her insides, to scream at the tops of her lungs that she's more than just another Weasley. She wants people to recognise that she's been through horrible things as well, wants them to remember that she spent a year as Voldemort's rag doll. She wants to do something horrible, despicable, unforgivable. She wants to stand out. But even through all that, she doesn't want to destroy Harry Potter.

So she distances herself from him, consciously tries to make herself scarce. She clings close to Dean when they arrive back at school, tries hard not to meet Harry's eye whenever they're forced to speak one on one. She hates doing this to him, pushing him away, but she can't help it. Despite the rather horrible thoughts that Ginny has sometimes, she honestly doesn't want to see him hurt.


	5. Scorpius Malfoy — Hunger

**Warning:** This chapter contains slash. :S I couldn't resist. Shut up. Lol

**Character:** Scorpius Malfoy

**Prompt:** Hunger

Scorpius is lucky enough that he's never experienced real, physical hunger. He probably won't ever comprehend how starvation feels or how scary it is to have to wonder where a next meal will come from. He was brought up in a mansion, given everything he would ever need; he goes to a school where the default form of celebration is a long, extravagant feast. He's used to tables groaning under the weight of dishes piled high with any kind of food a person could imagine, and he's spent enough holidays with the Weasleys to appreciate the value of a home cooked meal. So, no, he doesn't understand _that_ type of hunger.

But there's another…one that feels like much more of a craving, one that he knows he'll probably never fully satisfy. It's a sort of burning itch that he just can't quite scratch. It's the flash of a smile, the urge to tangle his fingers in hair, the absolute _need_ to get closer, closer, closer. He can feel it, deep down in his bones, all the way to the core of his body, and he wants to sink his teeth into it, never let go. The hunger is worst of all when he's at school, when he has to share a dormitory with Albus and watch him fumble around the room in the mornings, all sleep-warmed body and tousled hair. It's during these times that Scorpius thinks he may just go mad with it, with the urge to reach out and tug him, laughing, into a dark corner or an abandoned classroom.

The summer months, though…they aren't so bad. Al's parents don't know what goes on behind closed doors. They'd never even guess, and when Scorpius comes to stay for the holiday, well…

One morning, just before the start of their seventh year, they're lying in bed, all wrapped up in each other. The heady scent of summer hangs heavy in the air, everything smelling of warmth and sunshine and sex. Scorpius traces his fingers lazily over the skin of Albus's stomach, hand trailing slowly up to catch in his hair, pulling him in. He smiles into the easy, languid kiss, stretching his back and curling his toes as he feels the contentment of his afterglow settling in. He rolls to prop his chin on Al's chest, looking up at him through his lashes.

"That is my _favourite_ way to wake up," he says emphatically, a grin spreading across his face.

And even though Al rolls his eyes and cuffs him around the head, Scorpius keeps smirking up at him. During the summer, his hunger isn't really all that unbearable


	6. Albus Potter — Breathtaking

**Warning:** Again, this chapter contains slash. Albus/Scorpius is my Next Gen OTP. What can I say?

**Character:** Albus Potter

**Prompt:** Breathtaking

It's kisses stolen in hidden little corners, touches that feel like a whisper across his skin. It's twined fingers in the dead of night and endless entangled moments. It's muscles rippling underneath his hands, the salty taste of sweat. It's Quidditch and laughter and that mischievous glint in his eye. It's smirks and sarcasm and the curl of his hair around his ears. It's all of this and much, much more. It's Scorpius, and it leaves him breathless.

He remembers when they started this all up, whatever this is that they have going. It began so, so innocently, is the thing. They'd been fighting, arguing about something unimportant. There was shouting and punches were thrown, and they'd started rolling around on the floor, trying to pin each other, and then suddenly, there had been a pause. Albus can't recall what exactly went through his head at that moment, only that he was suddenly hanging on tenterhooks, his breath caught in his throat. And then, as if out of nowhere, there was an explosion of popping buttons and grinding hips and clashing teeth, mouths locked together until they tore apart from each other, gasping for air, only to dive right back in.

It escalated so quickly that Albus can't even tell anymore when exactly it stopped being just two friends messing about together to blow off a bit of steam. They're in so deep now that he knows there isn't really any looking back. He's completely aware that what they do now, slow and gentle and filled with giddy, muffled laughter, is entirely different from how they began. They still have their moments of ferocity, of course, their flashes of animalistic urgency. But it's changed. Even at those times, there's a softer edge to it, a sort of loving caress within the insistent grabbing of arms and bodies.

And there's absolutely, positively no denying it. He likes to tease and laugh at Scorpius for liking it too much, for getting too attached, but they both know that Al feels the same way. They just get caught up in each other, and it seems that no matter _what_ he does, Albus can't help feeling as though he's been swept away


	7. Thestrals — Horrid

**A/N:** This one was written for Shira Lansys's Word Count Drabble Challenge. I was given a word count of _exactly_ 198 and had to stick to it. This is the result! :)

**Character:** Thestrals

**Prompt:** Horrid

They know that they're terrible, horrid creatures. Everything about them screams misery and heartbreak and loss, their very existence drenched in death and bloodshed and fright. It's not something that they're proud of or something that they want, but it _is_ a fact of their sad, lonely realities. That's why there are so many of them around Hogwarts; small children have never experienced these terrible things. They don't have to face the horror of being confronted with the truth of death every time they look upon a Thestral.

But that's all before the war. Before the battle and the smoke and the flashing light of curses. Before so many innocent lives were lost. The first term that Hogwarts is reopened is a sobering event. The professors watch sadly as so many of the students see the creatures for the first time, surprised gasps echoing around Hogsmeade station as they line up to clamber aboard carriages. Their hearts break a bit when they realise that even the youngest children's innocence, once so shining and joyful and filled with peals of delighted laughter, has been ripped away as mercilessly and as completely as if it had never existed at all


	8. Remus Lupin — Suitcase

**Character:** Remus Lupin

**Prompt:** Suitcase

Remus sighed, running his fingers over the faded gold letters of his suitcase. He'd had the thing for years, let it become shabby and tattered like so many other possessions of his. But this one was different. It wasn't like his robes or his wand or his boots. He didn't allow it to grow old like this because of some self-sacrificing need to fade into the background or because he couldn't afford a new one. No, he could very easily have charmed the letters back on, fixed the case up with a bit of simple magic. But he didn't. And he never would.

He remembers the day he was given this suitcase. It had been a gift when he'd left Hogwarts, presented to him by his proudly smiling friends. He had read the engraving on the side with raised eyebrows, sceptically glancing up at his friends.

"Why does it say Professor RJ Lupin?" he'd asked with a bewildered little laugh.

"Well, we'd thought about writing 'Professor Moony', but that didn't sound too professional," Sirius had told him, grinning widely.

"No," Remus had laughed, shaking his head. "I mean, why _Professor_?"

James had cocked an eyebrow at him, shoving at his shoulder. "Because, mate, you're going to be the best Defence professor they've ever seen!"

It wasn't just that James and Sirius and Peter had had faith in him…it was the fact that they'd believed that eventually, someday, the world would be a better place for people like him. That they'd had enough confidence in him and in his abilities that they'd decided on him being a professor before the possibility had even crossed his mind. And now, with two of them dead and the other in prison…he couldn't let that last piece of his friends go. So he left the suitcase as it was, unable to bare the thought of changing a single thing about it


	9. Petunia Dursley — Baseless

**Character:** Petunia Dursley

**Prompt:** Baseless

She just can't help herself. Every time she sees the boy, looks at her nephew, a jealous, infuriated sort of rage bubbles up inside her. She wishes, desperately, that she could love him, that she could give him all the things that a little boy deserves to grow up with…but she can't.

As much as she despised Lily during their childhood, as much as she hated that awful Severus boy that always snuck through the fence in their back garden, all that time, a piece of Petunia was crying out for her sister's attention. All she ever wanted from their relationship was attention, a bit of love thrown her way by Lily. But it was never enough. _She_ was never enough.

And now whenever she looks at Harry, all she sees is a boy born with all the gifts that she's desperately wished for her entire life. He was just _given_ magic, was handed Lily's affection on a silver platter as though it wasn't something that Petunia had worked for her entire life and never gotten.

So yes, of course she understands that her rationale for being so despicable to the young boy is entirely baseless. There's nothing wrong with magic on the surface; Harry can't help that he was born this way; it isn't his fault that there's a piece of wonder and joy in him that Petunia will never be able to experience. He cannot be blamed for any of this. Nonetheless, though, Petunia desperately wants to make him feel as miserable as she was her entire childhood, no matter how loathsome and abhorrent that makes her.


End file.
